My Husband's Son: A dark and gripping psychological thriller (11 page)

The next morning I arrived at work to find Yvonne pacing the boardroom, her phone glued to the side of her head.

Boxed off from the rest of our floor by immaculate glass walls, the boardroom took up the entire left side of the office and was at once the most private and the most public place we had at our disposal. Dominated by a large oval table around which Yvonne was currently performing laps, its single non-glass wall was garish with framed colour photos of our clientele.

I went to my desk and turned on the computer. Within seconds, Nick appeared. He stood behind my monitor, smiling.

‘Is there something I can help you with?’ Nick had been assigned to my team a few months earlier. A junior sales rep, he was always first in the office and last to leave and liked to clog my inbox with unnecessarily long reports on every call and pitch.

‘Have you had a chance to look at the Wetherspoon’s spreadsheet?’

With coarse black hair cut close to his head and wiry sprouts on the backs of his hands, he had a tendency to wear shirts that were just that bit too small.

‘Spreadsheet?’

‘I sent it last night.’

‘OK. I’ll come back to you as soon as I have any feedback.’

I turned my attention back to the computer screen, letting him know we were done. He lingered for a few more seconds before wandering off, back to his side of the office.

Nick dealt with, I logged in and was all set to power through my emails when I heard Yvonne banging on the glass wall. I looked up and she pointed at me, then beckoned me inside.

Ignoring the craned necks and curious whispers of Nick and my other colleagues, I did as she asked. Taking a seat, I noticed a single white envelope on the table in front of her, face-side down. Yvonne had placed her index finger on its seal and was moving it around in small circles, the paper sliding easily across the varnished pine.

I gave her a hopeful smile. She didn’t return the gesture. My mouth went dry. There was only one thing this could be about and that was last night.

After departing the pub, I’d finally made it to the restaurant only to discover that, having waited for over an hour, Mr McDonald had gone. I’d hoped to spend this morning doing damage control but, judging by the scowl on Yvonne’s face, it seemed I was too late.

Nervous about the inevitable tirade to come, I began fiddling with the hem of my skirt and was hit by the sensation of Tommy’s palm on my inside leg. My cheeks burned a hot, immediate red.

Opening her mouth slightly, Yvonne tapped her teeth together, apparently deciding how best to begin.

‘Head Office said it was too soon for you to be promoted,’ she declared with a wave of her hand, as though the board of investors were sitting right behind her. ‘But I stuck up for you. No, I said. She’s ready, I said. Trust me, I said.’

Wearing a green wrap dress that strained at the bust, Yvonne wore her short, henna-dyed hair in a side parting, smooth against her head.

‘Then what happens?’ she continued. ‘One month into the new role and you think you can do what you like.’

Blotches began to appear on her neck. I’d seen this happen to her once before, after she’d disciplined a PA for stealing office stationery.

‘That was Mr McDonald on the phone. He’s decided to give the pubs and clubs contract to Calico Drinks. An outcome which is going to massively damage our’ – she paused for effect – ‘and
your
end-of-year targets.’

‘Last night couldn’t be helped,’ I said. ‘There was an accident on the A19. You must have seen it on the news.’

‘But it’s not just last night is it? The other week you had,’ she lifted her fingers in the air to signal inverted commas, ‘food poisoning. Which meant you missed the original meeting …’

‘I did, I told you, I ate a dodgy sandwich,’ I said, still hoping to persuade her none of this was my fault. I hated myself for having messed up so badly, but there was no way I could admit that to Yvonne.

‘Sorry, Heidi.’ She couldn’t meet my eyes. ‘I’m asking you to consider this your first formal warning.’ She slid the white envelope across the table to where I sat.

‘Yvonne. No.’ I turned it right side up. There, in black capital letters, was my name. ‘I’m sorry. Really. I love my job and I’ve always appreciated the way you’ve supported my career …’

‘I don’t want your appreciation,’ she said. ‘I want you to show up when you’re supposed to. I want you to tell me it won’t happen again.’

‘It won’t,’ I said. ‘I give you my word.’

Her anger spent, Yvonne seemed to collapse in on herself.

‘Take a few minutes to compose yourself.’ She placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Then go home. Take the rest of the day. Think of tomorrow as a fresh start.’

Looking out through the glass walls, I saw that a few people had gathered around Hayley, the receptionist’s, computer. They seemed to be watching something together. Shooting the odd, sly glance in my direction, it was clear they were gossiping about what might have just transpired.

I smoothed down my skirt and pushed back my shoulders. I could not afford to lose this job. Jason’s freelance teaching salary was unreliable – and negligible at that, which meant I was the breadwinner in a house where we were already overstretched on the mortgage. Plus, I was still planning to talk to Jason about trying for a baby. If and when I fell pregnant, I didn’t want to be unemployed with no maternity pay to speak of.

I mustered the best smile I could, lifted my head high and opened the door. Acutely aware of my team’s every shared look and halted conversation, I began the long walk back to my desk. I told myself they had no idea what had just happened. As far as they were concerned, my chat with Yvonne had been a targets catch-up. But they’d seen the expression on her face. They weren’t stupid. Still, I made sure not to let my smile falter and, after grabbing my things, I wandered over to reception.

Hayley and a couple of others were watching a video embedded into a news site. Their reaction was such that they’d now attracted a small crowd, interested to see what all the fuss was about. Hayley explained that it was a jewellery advert that had gone viral and, at everyone’s urging, she clicked play, starting the video over from the beginning.

I moved closer.

The video began with simple grey text on a white background that announced the ad’s title:
The Unique Connection
. An acoustic guitar track started playing in the background and the shot cut to a large, airy warehouse, backdropped by high, wide windows. Six women entered the warehouse and lined themselves up in a row. Next, we were presented with a beautiful little girl. Aged four or five, she was wearing a simple white dress and had blonde corkscrew curls. We saw her eyes being gently covered with an ecru blindfold and then we were presented with more text, this time explaining that what we were about to see was an experiment. Was it possible for children to recognise their mother through touch and scent alone? As the girl began to move tentatively along the group, the row of women waited anxiously, her mother amongst them. One by one, the women bent down so that the little girl could touch and smell their hair and faces. The little girl felt for the hands and hair of the first woman and shook her head; she did the same with the second and again, shook her head. But then, no sooner had she got close to the third woman in the row, she smiled and removed her blindfold, confident this was her mother. The mother smiled, her eyes wet with tears, and then she drew her daughter in for a hug.

The ad came to an end and someone requested that Hayley play it again. I took my chance and slipped out the door unnoticed, as though my reason for leaving was nothing more ominous than a late lunch.

That night, I lay in bed waiting for Jason’s snores to take on the long, low rattle that signified deep sleep. On the floor beside me was my handbag, a white envelope peeking over the edge. My formal warning.

There had been a time when Yvonne had given me a very different kind of letter: a job offer to come and work at Bullingdon’s. That was over two years ago. Walking into the interview, I’d assumed that at some point she’d ask about Lauren or my relationship with Jason. That she’d want her own individual scrap of gossip to relay to her friends. As it turned out, she was nothing but professional. When we got up to shake hands and she still hadn’t mentioned anything, I knew she wasn’t ever likely to. I’d been right. And so, even though she had her faults I liked working for her. I wanted to keep on working for her.

I slipped my hand out of the duvet and pushed the envelope down to the bottom of the bag. From now on I needed to be more careful.

I slowed my breathing and tried to relax, but every time I closed my eyes I saw the framed photo in the room at the back of the shop. My mind began to race. It was the only picture in the room and Keith had gone to the trouble of framing it. That meant it was significant to him in some way. Why? And who was the other adult in the picture? I still had the four photo-composites of the suspects I’d taken from Jason’s file: the people who’d been seen in or around the flats when Barney first went missing. Was there a chance that one of them could be a match?

I tossed and turned for another hour, restless with thoughts of the boy and my formal warning. Close to midnight I had an idea. I couldn’t sleep, and so what if I put this time laid here awake to good use? Instead of fretting in the dark, I could go back to the shop now, in the middle of the night, and try to put my mind at rest. The time might even be to my advantage. Jason had an old pair of binoculars in the drawer downstairs and there was a torch in my car. I could look at the framed photo without interruption.

Sliding out of bed, I gathered up my clothes from the floor and stole across the carpet and out to the landing and the bathroom. I got changed in the dark.

I was almost ready when I fumbled with the lace on one of my trainers. The shoe dropped to the tiles with a thud. Across the hall, I heard Jason stir. Blood pounding in my ears, I waited to see if I’d woken him. There was nothing. Then I heard the telltale duvet rustles that meant he was turning onto his side. Only once I was sure he had properly settled did I finish getting dressed. All set, I tiptoed down the stairs and, after making a quick detour to the kitchen for the binoculars, I was out the door.

I worried that Jason might hear if I started the car while it was parked in front of the house and so I released the handbrake and let it roll backwards down the hill. As soon as I was a fair distance away, I put the key in the ignition. I hoped to get to the off-licence and back without Jason realising I was ever gone. However, if he did wake, I was counting on the fact that there had been plenty of previous occasions when, unable to sleep, one or the other of us had gone out pacing. There should be no cause for concern.

The motorway was predictably quiet, and I made it to Gateshead in less than an hour. I parked on Coatesworth Road, a short distance from Wine City, got out and walked up to the shopfront. The
LEASEHOLD AVAILABLE
sign was still hanging above the shop’s hoarding.

As would be expected at nearly two in the morning, the metal shutters were down, the door locked. However, despite the hour, there were some lights on in the flat above. Keith must still be awake. I’d need to be careful. I carried on to the end of the street, turned the corner and headed for the gap in the wall that led to the back alley.

As I moved forward into the darkness, I held the thin torch I’d brought in front of my body, but it was so small that it illuminated only tiny, ineffectual circles of light. Cursing myself for not thinking to bring something bigger, after a few minutes I gave up and turned it off. Gradually, my eyes began to adjust, and soon I could distinguish between the different gates and loading bays. Ten feet ahead was the brick extension that marked the back of the off-licence. I felt for the binoculars, on a strap around my neck, and continued on my way.

I was almost there when I heard rapid footsteps up ahead. A man was approaching from the opposite end of the alley. On instinct, I jumped behind a large industrial bin and crouched on the floor. Looking through the thin gap between the bin and the wall, I watched as the man slowed his pace. I worried it was because he’d seen me, but then I realised: he was counting doors. Tall and thickly built, he was completely bald and was dressed in jeans and smart shoes, his top half covered in a bulky Puffa jacket, the collar of which reached all the way to his ears.

He came to a stop outside the off-licence and took a step back, surveying the brick extension and first floor beyond.

Apparently satisfied with whatever he saw there, he moved in close to the door and raised his right hand, fist clenched. He banged hard three times, then stopped, listening. When a minute or so later there was still no response, he shook his head, disappointed, and then, as if he was sorry for what he was about to do, he began to bang on the door again. This time he didn’t stop. The dull thud of his fist against the metal was relentless. Each slam resulted in a dull thump followed by a tinny crumpling; the impact’s ripple effect on the door’s loose, metal outer edges.

Finally, a light came on in the extension’s single high, thin window. The metal door opened a crack, flooding the alley with a yellow glow.

The man in the alley held his fist in the air for a few seconds and then lowered it to his side. The skin on his head shone smooth and white.

The door was on the chain. A shirtless Keith peered through the gap.

‘Robbie,’ he said, scratching his belly. ‘Long time no see. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

I noticed that, despite the pleasantry, he didn’t remove the chain from its bolt.

‘Where is she?’ asked the man. He jammed his foot in the gap at the bottom of the door.

‘Don’t know.’ Keith stopped scratching. ‘Haven’t heard from her in ages.’

‘Don’t lie, fat boy.’ The man got in as close to Keith’s face as the gap in the door would allow. ‘I know you two. You’re thick as bloody thieves, always were.’ He thrust his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘I’m going to ask again and this time I want you to tell me the truth. Where is my wife?’

‘Like I said before, I don’t know.’ I heard the catch in Keith’s voice. He was trying to sound brave, but this man frightened him. I remembered what he’d said to me about the shop the first time I went in there. The cage was good because it meant no one could get back there to beat him up.

The man laughed, a half-hearted attempt at nonchalance.

‘I heard they let her have the kids back?’

Keith said nothing. The man tried again.

‘They’re my flesh and blood,’ he said, his indifference forgotten. ‘My son and daughter. I’ve got a right to see them.’

I wanted to keep listening, but I also didn’t want to be stuck here when the man finished. If Keith was frightened of this person, then I definitely should be. I tried to get up and creep away, back the way I’d come, but I’d been crouching on my haunches for too long and my muscles had seized. I fell onto the metal bin I was hiding behind and it moved forward on its castors, letting out a low rumble.

Spooked by the noise, the man stopped ranting and looked over in my direction.

I tried to scrabble back into my hiding place, but it was too late.

‘Who’s there?’ The man turned towards me and, as he did, he removed his foot from the gap. Keith took his chance and, with no interest in who or what might be lurking, slammed the door shut.

Realising what had happened, the man turned to the door and started to kick and punch the metal.

‘Fuck, fuck!’

It took seconds to realise his efforts were futile and then he returned his attention to where I was trying to get to my feet.

His face was churned up, gunning for a fight, but then as I came into view his expression changed to one of confusion. He looked me up and down and then his face relaxed, as though he’d had some kind of revelation.

‘Oi oi. What do we have here? Hello, sweetheart.’

Now upright, I started to back away.

‘You interrupted something very important just now.’

There was still at least ten feet between us, but he was trying to close the gap.

‘How about you make it up to me?’ He tugged at the front of his belt. ‘What’s the going rate these days?’

I started to run.

Far ahead was the rectangle of orange light that marked my exit. If I could just get to the street, there might be people. I’d be safe.

I heard him laugh, hard and loud, and then I heard the friction-swish of his arms pumping against the insulated fabric of his Puffa jacket. He was in pursuit.

I tried to break into a sprint but I kept banging into things, my ankles twisting on the tin cans and wrappers underfoot.

‘Don’t cock-tease,’ he shouted after me. ‘Not tonight. I’m not in the mood.’

I turned around, trying to see how far away he was, but as soon as I stopped looking where I was going, I crashed straight into an empty drum of vegetable oil. The momentum sent me careening towards the ground. I only just managed to right myself in time and was nearly at the end of the alley when my foot slipped on a cobble. I went over on my ankle and something sheared in my foot. The pain was white-hot but I couldn’t stop. He was gaining on me. Please let there be someone on the street, I prayed. Please let there be someone to help me.

I reached the pavement and, panting for breath, looked left and right. But the place was deserted. My car, I needed to get back to my car. I turned left and left again, back onto the high street, my footsteps brittle in the empty air. After a while I realised I could no longer hear him. I did a quick check, but there was no sign of him. He must have lost interest. My chest heaving, I slowed my pace to a walk.

I reached my car, got inside and locked the doors, but within seconds he’d reappeared from nowhere and began banging on my windscreen, swearing and jeering.

I fumbled with the key, trying to get it in the ignition, but I lost my grip and it fell into the footwell. The man’s screaming and banging was getting louder.

Rummaging in the gloom, finally, my fingers came upon the key. I started the engine and was about to pull away when I realised there was a car parked directly in front of mine. I was blocked in. I turned around. There was nothing behind me. Pushing the gear-stick into reverse, I sped away, my engine wailing. Undeterred, he started running after me.

I pressed harder on the accelerator and he slowed to a jog.

Checking the road behind, I saw that I was fast approaching the crossroads that marked the end of the high street. I would either have to stop or fly out blind, backwards into any oncoming traffic. I released my foot off the pedal while I tried to figure out what to do. But within seconds it was clear I’d made a mistake. The man had not, as I thought, tired of me and had decided to use my new, much slower speed to his advantage. He raced towards me, getting closer and closer. I saw that he had picked up a brick from somewhere. I looked around for help, but the street was empty. There was nothing for it. I closed my eyes, slammed my foot on the accelerator and flew across the different lanes, red lights, beeps, screeches and skids roiling in my wake.

Somehow, I reached the other side unscathed. I checked back on the man. Hampered by the now chaotic crossroads traffic, he’d stopped. He stood looking at me, weighing the brick in his hand, as though trying to work out how far he could throw it.

I turned the car around, put it into first gear and sped off down the street. I wasn’t sure which way I was going. I didn’t care.